Luck of the Devil
by Jack of All Suits
Summary: Disney-Based. After the Feast of Fools, Clopin enters Notre-Dame intending to rescue Esmeralda. Instead Clopin meets a very angry hunchback who is nursing a grudge against everyone's favorite gypsy king.


**What started as a personal drabble to get the idea out of my head, clearly took a life of its own. This is my first HoND fanfiction, so pardon any poor characterization. Disney-based, because I haven't finished the book.**

**Luck of the Devil  
**

Esmeralda had all the luck of the Devil.

If she sneezed, the Seine would run dry just to spite her.

Clopin stared up, up, up at Notre-Dame with a feeling of irritation mingled with intimidation. He had promised that he would fetch her, and so he would. Even if there were guards around the cathedral… Clopin Trouillefou had been sneaking around the backs of Frollo's men for thirty years, and he was getting good at avoiding detection. He wasn't fond of the method he would have to employ tonight, however. The stone walls of Notre-Dame were bleak, and his fingers already ached to foreshadow the torture to come.

Yet, he had promised. Esmeralda would get back to the Court even if Clopin had to carry her(Hopefully it wouldn't come down to that). He laid one hand against a statue of Mary, looking at the stone eyes for a long moment before pulling himself into her arms and then onto her head. For a moment Clopin felt an apology forming on his lips, but he scoffed rather than deliver it. He detested Notre-Dame. It was more a prison than a cathedral. A prison made of stone and glass.

You could go mad in there.

He hauled himself onto a gargoyle, straddling the beast for a few moments to regain his bearings. Mary seemed to reflect indignity up at him, but Clopin only sneered. No _right_. If she and the rest of the saints couldn't keep his people from dying, why shouldn't he do _more_ than just step on her? He had the _right_ to grind every statue in Notre-Dame to dust and then burn the shell down.

Clopin looked at the face of the gargoyle he was sitting on, and the terrible fangs gave him a measure of enjoyment. At least they served one decent purpose; to show that not all things commissioned by the Pope were pretty.

He balanced on the neck of the beast for a long while, then stood up, letting a breeze tickle the jingle bells(Clopin hadn't even changed into a more discreet tunic before running to the rescue) before he dared proceed. With every step, the ground grew further and further from view, and he began to doubt his own superb balance. Clopin breathed in through his nose, and out through his mouth, the same way he always did when his stomach started clenching nervously.

The climb was slow, taking over three hours as he painstakingly picked his way through the maze of gargoyles and statues. The sun fled, and the bells for evening mass rang terribly loud, but still he climbed. Some ways led to a dead end, where Clopin couldn't reach any more handholds and he was forced to turn around. Once, just as it became dark, he could have sworn he saw a form move past and vanish along the other side of Notre-Dame, as well as the panicked bleating of a goat(Djali?). He had tried to see what it was, but the edge of the cathedral blocked his view, so with a shrug Clopin had proceeded to climb.

His gloves- his _good_ gloves- had torn by the time he took that final leap and clamored onto the rooftop lair of Quasimodo. The hush was unnerving, and in a moment of horror Clopin realized he might as well have entered a lion's den. The events of the day came rushing back, and he groaned into his sore hands. "_Mon Dieu_! He must hate me." It wasn't something unexpected. Clopin would hate _himself_ if he were in Quasimodo's overlarge shoes, for it had been his tormenting that had led to this entire fiasco.

Not, of course, that Clopin had had anything in mind this afternoon besides the thought of a new and awe-inspiring King of Fools. Despite knowing first-hand the horrors that the Parisian people could inflict upon those _without_ deformity - unless skin color and race counted as one – he had maintained a silly hope that it would be a wonderful festival, Quasimodo would have a wonderful time, and they would all part ways sufficiently drunk.

Now he was in the bell tower of Notre-Dame, fearing for his life, disgustingly _sober_, with the sensation of being watched. That was just the _way_ of the Feast of Fools, you know. Clopin always had awful luck with this sort of thing. In fact, maybe Esmeralda's luck was a branch off his own. All her clinging in childhood had forced his tendency for trouble to wipe onto her.

He slipped across the open pathway between the towers of Notre-Dame, heading towards the one that seemed a bit more likely to lead _out_. Or down. Yes, down would be better. Clopin walked carefully, wincing whenever his foot fell on a squeaky board. "Hurry, Trouillefou…" He muttered to himself, even as he became intrigued by the tabletop scene.

Against his better judgment, Clopin crossed the humble bell ringer's abode and scanned the cute statuettes with entertainment glistening in his eyes. He scooped up the baker and tossed him between his hands. "_Magnifique!_" Clopin breathed, though his gaze was then attracted to a less pleasant sight on the floor. He crouched and leaned precariously under the table, scratching after the familiar shades of yellow and purple.

Clopin pulled out two pieces, and held them loosely in his hands. They were both broken, and before they had met their maker, apparently, both had been well carved. His look-alikes smiled up at him, one wearing his Festival outfit(The same which was still tinkling happily on his person) while the other wore one of his more common purple tunics.

They had been torn in half, and by the cracked arms and scratched paint, Clopin even gambled that someone had taken the time to stomp on them. Somehow he didn't think it had been at all accidental. "Now is the time to go, I think." He murmured, dropping the marionettes and trying his hardest to inch away.

He bumped into the table, which wobbled precariously. Several wooden dolls hit the floor, and Clopin cursed, scooping up the one that resembled Esmeralda. Clopin held it for a moment longer than he had intended, eyes wide at the craftsmanship of it.

"_**Don't touch!**_"

He moved back on instinct, setting the doll down hastily and throwing up his hands. Quasimodo had appeared before him from seemingly nowhere, and Clopin swallowed nervously. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I'll just leave!" He scrambled away from the hunchback, whose hideous exterior was only magnified by his fury. "I'm leaving! I don't want any trouble from you!"

Quasimodo took one step for every one that Clopin did, and his mouth formed a few words, though he didn't voice them. After a long moment, the hunchback snarled under his breath and shot the questions out. "Why are you here? Sanctuary?"

Clopin shook his head, one hand holding his hat down. "No, not sanctuary! I'm looking for someone. La Esmeralda… dances? Has a goat?" He shook his hips in example and gave a brief estimation of Djali's height. "She wouldn't come up here, but I—"

"Why wouldn't she come up here? How would _you _know? Get out! I don't want you here!" Quasimodo waved a hand at Clopin's light frame, but he jumped away, hitting a stone wall. What was this mad bell ringer talking about? _Was _Esme up here? Was the hunchback holding her hostage? The thoughts ran after each other through Clopin's mind, and he didn't notice Quasimodo's hand until it had wrapped around the front of his tunic.

He yelped when he was dragged across the floor not unlike a bag of flour, and he sought desperately for some way to quell the beast. "She's shy!" Clopin hollered in panic. "Not because of you, Quasimodo! I swear! Esmeralda is _shy_, I have known her for all her life and she's—_Merde!_ What the _hell_ are you doing?!"

His feet had left the floor entirely and now Clopin was staring down at Paris with nothing between him and the ground. He was going to die! That crazy hunchback was going to kill him and he didn't even know _why_! "I can think of many better ways to leave! I don't need to take the express route!" He clawed at Quasimodo's forearm, though that certainly didn't improve his odds of getting back to the solid bell tower.

Clopin had never heard stories of the bell ringer being aggressive. In fact, the gypsies he had spoken to that had called sanctuary in Notre-Dame said that the few times he was seen, there was a certain gentleness about the boy. This was _not_ a gentle encounter! This was terrifying!

"What do _you _want with _her_?"

The question made Clopin confused, and he flailed a bit more. "I want to help her!" He shouted frantically. "I can get her _out_ of here. Gypsies…" He gasped, scrabbling at his collar as air became scarce. "Gypsies don't do well behind stone walls." Who had told him that again? He couldn't remember in this situation.

Quasimodo's grip loosened enough to inspire new panic in Clopin, who scrambled to hold onto the hunchback's arm. "Don't let me go, _Salaud_!" He shouted frantically.

Suddenly he was released, and Clopin began to fall before he could even think to scream. His hands grabbed at air and he screwed up his eyes. He didn't want to see the ground rushing up. At least this was a good way to die – people might think he had gone out fighting the Hunchback of Notre-Dame!

A sudden pain in his knee and the feeling of his face becoming formally acquainted with the wall alerted Clopin to his continuing life. He groaned, weaving back and forth in the air, staring down at the Earth in horror. Now he was being held upside-down… oh, _fantastique_.

"I think I hate you." Clopin looked up at Quasimodo in confusion. What did that crazy, lumpy bastard say? He _thought _he hated Clopin? If this was how he treated his _friends_(Bah, not as though he had many of those) then he might feel compelled to _really_ start worrying. "After today, I think I do. It was all your fault."

He tried to articulate a response, but the awful vertigo made thinking impossible, and his nose was bleeding, making it hard to see as all the blood trickled into Clopin's eyes. "I'm sorry!" He shouted nevertheless. "I didn't know what was going to happen! If I had I never would have—" He yelped when Quasimodo jerked on his leg.

"_**Yes you would!**_" He shouted angrily. "I know you would! My master talks about _you_, you know. King of the Gypsies. You're Clopin Trouillefou!" Quasimodo spoke as if Clopin had no idea that he was called such. "You're the reason for all of this! People like you! You make life difficult for everyone else! You tell people to steal and… and lie… and… and they do it because you're the _king_!"

It sounded to Clopin as though that was a very well-rehearsed speech that Quasimodo hadn't even thought up himself, and he took advantage of it beautifully. He strained to look up, wiping blood out of his eyes until it looked like some sick mockery of the mask he had worn during the day. "If that is the case, then why am I here?" He swayed back and forth when a gust of wind pushed past, groaning through the great bell tower. "If… if that _were _the case, I would leave her to die and be just as happy." Clopin relaxed and stared dispassionately downward. You know… it was still a beautiful view, even upside-down with a madman holding your ankle.

"You're evil." Quasimodo said uncertainly, though his grip tightened from the Devil-have-you hold to something a bit more comforting. "You steal, and lie, and make people think unholy thoughts."

"Please, Lumpy," Clopin rolled his eyes. "If you are going to call me names, at least think them up yourself." He looked up at Quasimodo again. "But if that _is_ what you think," He spread his arms wide in an inviting gesture. "Just drop me already! I'm getting bored." He felt bile in his throat, and Clopin began wondering on what he hadn't done in life. What he might have been able to achieve. "Esmeralda will hate you though."

Oh, he hoped he was right. He hoped the hunchback had a soft spot for her. He hoped that it could be transferred to him! "I'm not just the king, Quasimodo." Clopin explained as coolly as he could, closing his eyes lest the view make him sick. "I am one of her _closest_ friends. Family, if you will… and she doesn't have much of that left!" He took a steadying breath, and stared down once more.

He hit the floor almost as quickly as he had hit the wall, and Clopin scrambled to his feet, nursing his sore leg all the while. He kept a wary eye on Quasimodo as he limped back, swallowing his vomit for the time being. One hand wiped blood out of his eyes while the other continued to rub his knee.

"Just get out. Please." Quasimodo waved towards the trapdoor that Clopin had failed to notice. "I'm sorry. I would never _actually_…" The deformed man—no, he was more a boy—turned away and Clopin pursed his lips, pulling open the door. He took one shaky step down, then turned to look at Quasimodo again.

"You know," Clopin began conversationally, scooping up his hat from where it had fallen during their scuffle. It had been stepped on, but that was fixable, so he jammed it back on his head. "You're a better man than I'll ever be." Quasimodo looked up in shock, but Clopin was already gone, leaving behind the stained glass wind charm he'd so cleverly plucked from the ceiling. His eyes lingered on it for a long while, in confusion.

As he picked up a fresh block of wood and began to whittle away, Quasimodo began to laugh.

-

**Translation guide**

**_Mon dieu! _- My God!**

**_Magnifique! _- Magnificent!**

**_Merde! _- Shit/Dammit!**

**_Salaud! _- Bastard!  
**


End file.
